Chapter Text
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
11:48 AM
The Hub, NY
They take more blood samples from him. One from each elbow, the back of his hand, his ankle—Lee even goes for his jugular, literally, and draws some from there. She hands each sample off to Spencer who immediately runs them to the microscopes, making an increasingly frustrated noise each time.
There’s a delicate knock on the door. “Bridgette,” Percy says, zipping his pants back up. Lee just had to try the damn femoral, too.
Spencer darts over and opens the door for her, but Bridgette hangs back at the doorway, a little flushed, as if she’d run from the bullpen. “The warrant got approved,” She says breathlessly. “We’re good to move in on Graves when we’re ready.”
Lee pauses, faucet still running, and looks up, eyes wide. “Really?”
Bridgette nods, beaming. “I got it pushed through.”
Lee dries off her hands and smiles at her wife. “You are wonderful,” She says. Bridgette turns pink, then scarlet as Spencer and Percy both voice their agreements. “Oh, well,” She says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “The incredibly incriminating data chip that was, essentially, a confession, went a long way, too.”
“Anything handled by you would go a long way.” Lee says as she labels the test vials. “Because you are wonderful.”
Any more, and Percy was fairly sure Bridgette would combust. She clears her throat, face burning. “Dan’s got eyes on Graves—pretty sure he won’t be able to sneeze without us knowing. Ross is upstairs convincing Barnes to not track him down like, now. He seems pissed. Like, super pissed.”
Percy winces a little. “Yeah, well…Graves did kinda send a team to kill me and the Hanover family.”
“He’s also, less directly, part of the reason you got shot in Sokovia. And, perhaps, part of the reason Barnes got kidnapped last August.” Lee added helpfully. And the reason I almost bled out in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. Percy mentally finishes. Lee, at least, has enough tact to not add that on.
“So, was he definitely working with Evil-Ross?” Spencer asks, confused.
“It’s highly likely,” Bridgette says. “Dan held off going through all of the data on the chip once we got enough to get the warrant. He’s in full surveillance mode, now. Figured we should strike sooner rather than later.”
Percy ran a hand through his hair. Graves first, he told himself. Graves first, then…Gods, then whatever the fuck Lee and Spencer had found.
Whatever was wrong with him—
“Lead the way,” He says.
They can’t wait. Bucky knows they can’t.
SWORD has some of the brightest minds in the country, a top secret building stocked with cutting edge technology, and not one, but expert two Enhanced combatants. They have the ear of the WSC, of Willa Hanover herself, and the allyship of the fucking Avengers.
The only thing they need, ironically, is the one thing they don’t have— time.
Between the bodies and Hydra, they’re scrambling. They can’t wait, not with this. Not when Graves knows they’re onto him and could strike back at any moment. He already demonstrated how far he was willing to go at the Hanover-Qin house, and if not for…whatever the fuck happened that night (whatever the fuck happened to Percy) , there was a fair chance they’d all be dead.
Something prickles across his shoulders and down his arms. Bucky flexes his fingers, nails digging into his palms as he stares at the picture of Graves up on the big screen. A moderately squared jaw, thick, brown hair greying at the temples, and pale green eyes stare back. Graves looks like anybody else, Bucky thinks—but, then again, isn’t that the point?
He looks like Karpov. He looks like Zola, Piece, Sitwell, Rumlow, and Strucker. They all look the same to him—it's in the eyes. Remorseless eyes.
Some days, Bucky remembers seeing those eyes reflected back at him through the grimy mirror of the accommodations Hydra had shoved him in while he circled his prey.
Next to him, Percy is a thousand miles away. There’s something unfocused in his eyes, his thumbnail digging in harshly to the meat of his pointer. Spencer keeps looking at him. Lee has a much better poker face, but there’s not much that gets past him.
Bucky reaches out and tugs Percy’s hand until he relaxes his hand. “You okay?” He asks quietly.
His boyfriend shakes his head. “Later,” He says, and Bucky believes him. “Are you?”
Bucky takes in a measured breath, eyes flicking back to the projected image of Graves. God, those eyes. A sudden chill dances across his skin, and he shifts a little closer to the warmth that consistently emanates from Percy.
“Sometimes,” he says, “I feel like we’ll never get them all. Every time I think it's over—” Bucky shakes his head. “Cut off one head, and two more will grow, right?” He says humorlessly.
Percy hums, interlacing their fingers. “You know,” He offers quietly. “When I was thirteen, Annabeth, Tyson, and I stumbled across a real Hydra. It didn’t go well. Clarisse had to save our asses with a whole warship.” His nose wrinkles slightly in the way it does when he thinks back. “I felt like there was nothing I could do. Nine problems multiplied into, like, twenty, and it felt like everything we did just made it worse.”
Bucky wants to make some sort of snide remark about his boyfriend’s future as a motivational speaker, but he can’t get it past his chest. Not when one of the metaphorical heads (almost killed him, almost killed Percy, almost made him kill Percy—) is staring at him from the projected screen.
“Pipes, Jason, and I ended up fighting one a few years after that.” Percy nudges Bucky’s side with his elbow. “And, that time, I didn’t need Clarisse. I learned to stop cutting heads off.”
“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “What’d you do?”
Percy’s hand slides to cup his neck, pulling him in and pecking him on the cheek. “I blew the entire fucking thing up at once.”
And, Gods help him, a small laugh bubbles out from Bucky’s chest. “Of course you did,” he says. He doesn’t have to look to know Percy is smiling, that little half one that tugs the corners of his lips upwards.
Percy gives his hand a last quick squeeze before turning to address the rest of the team. “Bridgette got the warrant pushed through. We’ve been able to keep it under wraps, for now, but it’s only a matter of time.” He says. “Graves is dangerous. Powerful. He’s already displayed how overtly he’s willing to move, and now that he knows someone is onto him, he’s bound to be ready to run.”
The team straightens, meeting Bucky’s eyes straight on. He nods at them.
“We go tonight. By sunrise, he’ll be in cuffs, or he’ll be dead.” Percy says. “Clear?”
There’s a collective exhale.
Crystal.
Tuesday, May 16th, 2018
7:31 PM
Washington DC
Two hours later, their strike plan is set, acquisitions ready for them on location.
They’re in DC three hours after that, go bags stuffed in the back of a tinted SUV. They take positions up and down the street, lying in wait.
It feels like forever, but also barely enough time to breathe, before Dan speaks up. He’s set up in the back, his comm in and laptop open, propped up on his thigh. “He’s pulling onto his street,” he announces. “Everyone in position?”
“Ready.” Lee is the first to respond, more for everyone else’s benefit rather than Dan’s, as she’s in the front seat, firearm at her hip. Nobody is going to be alone for this one.
Just in case.
They’re parked two houses down, van with some service logo slapped on the side parked against the curb.
“Foxglove and I are good,” Bridgette says next. “Neighbors to the left are evacuated.”
“Same with the ones on the right,” Mal says. “Neon and I are ready.”
There’s a pause, then, “Sargeant and I are in.” Percy’s voice is quiet, but level. “I’ve got the back door covered. Strike teams are in position surrounding the backyard and the street.”
This one was big. They’d never had WSC strike teams on a mission with them.
“We’re sure he’s heading straight here?” Mal asks. “I mean, he’s got to know about the chip being gone, right?”
“Maybe not,” Ross replies. “He knows it’s gone, sure, but that wasn’t too long ago. Hydra’s networks are practically in shambles. Whoever he was planning on having deliver the chip, it’s unlikely he’s had any contact with them—too risky. He knows we’ve been breathing down his neck.”
“And,” Dan chimes in, fingers flying across his keyboard, “Our little…field trip, to Sokovia, wasn’t an officially sanctioned mission. There’s no record of it for him to access. As far as he knows, SWORD stayed firmly in New York.”
“Nobody expects Willa Hanover,” Ross agreed lightly. For a profiler, he’s not hiding the tension in his voice particularly well. “...Or how reckless we are, I guess.”
“As far as Graves knows, that damn chip is in the wind and his idiot team accidentally blew up an empty fucking house.” Percy finally says. Bucky can hear his heartbeat from across the house. As snickers flow over the comm line, he tries to focus on it, to quell the trembling rage in his hands.
Cut off one head…
It’s a warm, humid night. The air is thick, the moon hidden away by a heavy tarp of clouds overhead. Christopher’s skin is warm beneath his shirt and coat, uncomfortably so. As the garage door closes behind him, he fishes out his keys and unlocks his door.
He steps over the threshold, sliding the deadbolt behind him. Christopher drops his work bag on the cushioned bench in the mudroom and heads straight through the kitchen and living room, then up the staircase to his bedroom while opening his phone with one hand. With a tap, he sets the house alarm, the other hand loosening his tie.
It’d been a long, dragging day at the Council chambers, hours upon hours or monotone voices and dense briefings. Willa Hanover hadn’t shown up, and Christopher briefly toys with the idea that they’d scared her off for good. It’s not an unpleasant idea. She’s been a thorn in his side for years, and ever since she’d been the final approval for SWORD, his hatred for her had reached new bounds.
SWORD.
His lip curls.
Hydra is circling the wagons, so to speak, and with Captain America run off and SHIELD now rubble, there’s nobody to blame but them. It’d only been a couple days since he’d secured the data chip—Sokovia had been lucrative, but Christopher was one of the last high-ranking agents left. It was time to start keeping secrets close to his chest.
A few more days, he tells himself, and he would be holding what was left of Hydra. It’s a fraction of what it used to be, but it was a great deal more than what he had currently.
Christopher steps into the bedroom, cool air of the oscillating fan in the corner washing over him. He slips his coat off and hangs it over the corner of the headboard, then sits on the edge of his mattress, leaning down to untie his shoes. He hadn’t drawn the curtains that morning, and the night sky was illuminated through the window pane.
“Save us time and keep them on.”
Christopher jerks back, whipping around. His hand darts towards his coat pocket as one of the clouds shifts, allowing a pale beam of moonlight to pass over the figure standing against his wall. The metal of his shoulder glints.
“Do you really think you can shoot faster than I can?” There’s a shaken second, and Christopher’s fingers slowly uncurl from the weapon inside his coat. “Stand up.”
Jaw flexing, Christopher stands. He smooths out his slacks, and turns to the wraith that has invaded his home. He opens his mouth to speak, but before a sole syllable can escape him, a crushing hand is wrapped around his throat and his shoulders slam against the wall. Christopher wheezes.
The Soldier’s cold eyes bore into his own.
“Did you work with Thaddeus Ross?” His voice is like steel. “Don’t try to speak. Nod or don’t.”
After a long moment, Christopher nods, mind working into overdrive. If it was an agent that ratted him out—because clearly, he had been— they would already be dead. No need for him to work there. Hydra agents would die for their cause, but God knows what sort of technology Stark had these days. Something that could get into somebody’s head wasn’t far-fetched (Hydra had already done it, the intoxicatingly powerful Wanda Maximoff, they’d done it first—) .
SWORD was not only aware of his allegiance, but sure of it. The Winter fucking Soldier wouldn’t be in his house, otherwise. It would be a wild gamble to show up in his house without solid evidence. There’s not much use in disputing it at the moment.
“Were you an accomplice to the kidnapping, trafficking, experimentation, and murder of at least twelve Enhanced children?”
One of Thaddeus Ross’s many follies. He’d spent weeks ranting and raving about the potential benefits of the program, going on about some sort of Enhanced he wanted to recreate. Personally, Christopher thought the recreation of anything named after a bomb— Subject C-4, he was fairly sure—didn’t seem like the basket to put all his eggs in. But, well, Christopher had money to spare. Whoever that subject was, they were certainly promising.
Christopher nods.
“Were you an accomplice to my attempted murder in the WSC chamber and the assault of a SWORD agent?”
Christopher nods. That one was easy. He, after all, had top access to the chambers.
“Were you an accomplice to the bombing of the Raft?”
Christopher shakes his head. That one was just pure stupidity. Christopher didn’t shed a sole tear when Ross was killed. He was more interested in covering his own ass than mourning an idiot like that.
The Soldier’s fingers tighten, digging into his flesh. “Were you an accomplice in bringing back the Winter Soldier last August?"
Christopher smiles—a strained, but undeniably well-pleased thing as spots appear in his vision.
And he nods.
The hand around his throat drops, and Christopher rubs at the skin, heaving in deep lungfulls of air. “You know,” His voice is wheezy and airy. “I’ve seen the footage.” Another smile. “You used to interrogate people for us just like that.” Christopher tilts his head. “You know, seeing you like this, I really do wonder just how much of him is left—”
His head snaps to the side with a deafening crack. Christopher falls to the carpeted floor, a hand clutching his jaw and cheek. The Soldier stands over him, then, slowly, crouches down to level with Christopher. “We have the authority to kill on sight when it comes to Hydra.” There’s something glinting in his eyes, a cat standing over a bird it ripped down from its nest. “You are lucky we’ve decided the humiliation and agony of a trial suits us better.” He stands.
“Whatever I just said won’t be admissible in court,” Christoper says, lips curling upwards as he staggers to his feet. “Something this brutal won’t even make it past the judge.” He stares into the Soldier’s eyes. Hydra’s greatest success. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Christopher says suddenly. “You went in front of the Council and claimed to be healed, but…no matter what you do, you keep dragging yourself back in front of Hydra. You may claim to be your own man, but…” A grated, scraped chuckle escapes him. “Still somebody’s attack dog, hm? Seems it’s just in your nature.” Christopher taunts.
A knee is driven into his gut, and he doubles over, bile rushing up his throat. Knuckles crash against his cheekbone on the other side of his face, and he drops to his knees. The Soldier tips his head to the side as he watches. “Aw, look,” He says tonelessly. “Now both sides match. Get up.”
Christopher pushes himself up, swaying slightly. “You can’t do this,” He wheezes. “I’m still a Councilman, Soldier. This is unnecessary force.”
His head slams against the wall, hand wrapped against his throat. “You and Thaddeus Ross almost cost me somebody very dear to me.” The Soldier says, eyes dark, and it’s then Christopher realizes, every time he has laid a hand on him, it has been flesh, not metal. “I could paint the walls with your blood and not lose a wink of sleep.” His grip slides down to Christopher’s collar and he yanks him forward, turns him around, and slams him against the wall once more. The Soldier grabs a wrist and slaps a cuff around it, then the other. As he does, another man enters the room, this one suited up with a dark helmet covering his face. “Christopher Graves,” The newcomer says, “You are under arrest by the authority of the WSC. Come quietly or we will use force.”
Christopher wrenches his head to the side to face the man. Without the light of the window nearby, he can barely make him out. “Unncesessary force has already been applied,” He spits.
The man cocks his head. “No, I don’t think it has.” He says mildly.
Christopher Graves is arrested quietly.
There are cameras lining up and down the street, WSC strike teams lined up in front of them, facing the house. The car that idles in front of the house is a police car, blue and red lights washing over the face of the building. There are no sirens. The news anchors are silent, but they are filming. Percy is the one who pushes Graves’s head down into the car. Bucky is the one that closes the door.
There is no discreet SUV to take him away. No Council representatives. Nobody in a suit and a special clearance.
Christopher Graves is taken away by the DC police like every other criminal. Nobody special, because he isn’t special.
And isn’t that just devastating?
There is nothing special about Christopher Graves. He is a man.
They all know his life inside and out. He was raised in a good home. Two parents that loved him. Academic achievement, good, close friends.
He scrambles for power, but Christopher Graves has always had power. There has never been a man standing over him. Nobody has ever taken what he’s had, and, for that reason, he’s always wanted more.
That is perhaps the scariest thing about Christopher Graves.
He has never suffered.